A Creature Void of Form
by moonlighten
Summary: 1698: France visits Scotland during one of the Seven Ill Years, a period of national famine in Scotland. (Scotland/France.) One-shot, complete. Part of the Feel the Fear series.


**1698; Edinburgh, Kingdom of Scotland**

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France appears at Scotland's door like a piece of flotsam washed up by the tide: unexpected, unannounced, and thoroughly bedraggled.

It has been raining heavily and without surcease for almost three days, and he is not dressed for the weather – no more than he ever has been throughout the many long years Scotland has known him – but instead as if to present himself in court for an audience with Scotland's king, though Scotland has heard no mention of any such meeting having been arranged.

His lavishly embroidered justacorps is wringing wet, his once-white stockings and fine leather shoes bespattered with mud, and water drips from the end of his nose, the tips of his fingers, and every other sharp, pointed part of him. The skin of his hands is mottled crimson, shading towards blue at the knuckles, and his lips hold a tinge of the same hue. They part slightly as though on a greeting, but none ensues.

The last time they spoke, a decade ago now, all France's words had been sharply barbed enough to draw blood. They are not lovers anymore, or friends, or even friendly, and Scotland doesn't owe him the time of day, never mind anything else. He should shut the door in his face, set him adrift again so he can find his way to some other safe harbour.

"Well, you'd better come in," he says, because he can't bear to watch France shiver; never has been able to. "Wouldn't want you to wash away."

France comports himself with all the offended dignity of a drenched cat, his sodden nose angled aloofly skyward as he follows Scotland in silence through his small house, high-stepping and proud. He mounts no objections when Scotland leads him to his bedchamber, nor when he directs him towards the armchair pulled close to the hearth there, even though its faded upholstery is worn down to the weave in places and it belches a sizeable cloud of dust and shreds of stuffing when he plants his arse down on it.

He angles his body towards the fire, and then occupies himself by running his fingers through the matted strands of his wig until they separate into loose curls once more. It's blond, but a drab, brassy shade that is nothing but a dull mirror to his natural hair. Scotland wonders if he still wears it long underneath.

Scotland himself is bare headed, as he hadn't expected to receive any visitors this day, and his own hair is far longer than he would usually prefer to keep it; long enough that it has begun to curl at the ends itself now. He hasn't had either the time or the inclination to get it cut for a long while. He hasn't had the time, inclination, or the means to do many things that used to be within his normal purview of late, the proper care of himself and his clothes very much included.

His coat is old and shabby, many seasons out of date, and his breeches are patched at the knee. He would have expected France to sneer, poke fun, despair over the state of them, but when he does eventually spare a moment from his vital work on his wig to cast a glance his way, he says nothing at all.

Scotland can't think of anything to say, either. They must have talked once, free and easy, back when they were weans and spent so many endless hours and days all wrapped up and entwined in each other with no company but their own, but he can't seem to recall a single word they shared then. Now, it feels like they were always like this, where any question Scotland might ask would be too prying, every topic of conversation too fraught with a potential for upset, up to and including the weather.

"Can I fetch you anything?" he asks, because hospitality, at least, has little risk of causing offence. "Something to drink or…"

Or nothing. There's nothing he can offer France save perhaps some ale, which he's liable to turn his nose up at and consider as the insult Scotland had hoped to avoid. He hasn't had a scrap of food in his larder for many months now, perhaps even closing in on a year.

Thankfully, France shakes his head. The heat of the fire is the only succour he needs, it seems, and he turns towards it again. Scotland follows suit, seating himself beside France and watching as the flames flicker, then grow dim, then die down to naught but dancing little points of light that skim across the charred remains of the wood he stacked in the grate that morning.

When they have spluttered their last, France heaves himself up from his chair and moves towards Scotland's. Scotland keeps his gaze safely trained on the grimy toes of France's shoes as he approaches, but then France slides a hand beneath his jaw, pushes his head up and back and he's forced to look him direct in the eyes.

There's a keenness within them that Scotland hasn't seen there for many a year, and he is acutely, humiliatingly aware of the new lines deep-scored on his brow and bracketing his mouth; the loose skin around his jowls and the hollowness of his cheeks.

France runs his thumb across Scotland's bottom lip, his nail digging deep, and then trails it up the side of his face to rest at his temple. There, his fingers splay out and he tilts Scotland's head yet further, into the thin light trickling in through the mullioned window at their backs.

His lips curve, just a little, the barest hint of a smile, though Scotland can't imagine there's anything agreeable in the sight; except, maybe, that France hates him enough now to be pleased to see how much Scotland has diminished since losing his favour.

"_Écosse_." That name, between them, is certainly vituperative, but the kiss that follows is a kindness that Scotland would never have presumed to anticipate.

A half-century ago, they happened to cross paths in England's house, and worn down by his company by the end of the night – and raddled besides – they had fallen into bed again for the first time for a half-century more. A mistake, France had named it, and one he intended should never be repeated.

He's sober as a judge, though, this kiss is deliberate, and when Scotland presses forward, he allows it to deepen. The inside of his mouth tastes bitter, like wormwood and rue.

His hands have never been gentle, but they're downright vicious now: unforgiving as they haul Scotland to his feet, and brutal as they clutch at the newly sharp promontories of Scotland's hips. The skin is thin there, stretched tight over raw bones, and France's clawed fingers will likely leave bruises. Scotland will cherish every one, because it's so very seldom that France gives him anything that he's allowed to keep.

"France," he murmurs, when their mouths part for a moment. "I—"

He isn't sure what he's about to say – something reflexive and foolish, most likely; something like 'I've missed you' or 'I've missed _this_' – but France cuts him off before he can finish, which is probably for the best. He's never cared to hear such things, as he made perfectly clear when they first parted ways.

He attacks Scotland's mouth again, tears at his clothes, crowds close and pushes him back, back until he hits one of the bedchamber walls and can go no further. They spend themselves there, artless and still half-dressed, and France can't seem to get away from Scotland quickly enough for his liking afterwards. He scrabbles, undignified, to the other side of the room in between one blink of the eye and the next, and leans up against the mantlepiece, gasping for air like a man half-drowned.

He looks sickened; disgusted with himself, perhaps, for repeating his same 'mistake'.

Scotland can't imagine why he did. What they just shared hadn't felt like lust or the sort of passion that might make an otherwise sensible man forget his own promises and ignore his good sense. It felt like a punishment, though whether it was meant to castigate Scotland or France himself was unclear.

Scotland's heart is still pounding hard enough, his blood running hot enough to lend him the courage to pose the question he didn't dare ask earlier. "Why did you come here?"

"To Edinburgh?" France asks disingenuously, staring at the glowing embers that are all that remain of the fire. "On business."

Which could mean anything and is no real answer at all. Scotland clears his throat and tries again. "No, I meant—"

"I know what you meant, _Écosse_. I just…" France pauses, gathering his thoughts, and the smile that then spreads across his lips is as sharp as a knife and just as cruel. He holds his head high and proud again, meets Scotland's eyes squarely, and says, "You were just the nearest port in a storm."


End file.
